


The Unexpected Guest on the Balcony

by wobblyheadeddollcaper



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wobblyheadeddollcaper/pseuds/wobblyheadeddollcaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Georgette Heyer-ish AU commentfic, inspired by Leyna55's magnificent Regency AU artwork on lj. Colonel Sheppard has no desire to attend Lady Weir's soiree. General O'Neill is of another mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unexpected Guest on the Balcony

Inspired by Leyna55's magnificent Regency AU artwork on lj.

The poem is Lord Byron's 'The prayer of Nature'.

 

The library at the town house of Lady Weir, a widow of high birth and even higher principles, was a fine place to spend a summer evening. She was arranging a soiree in honour of the first anniversary of the imprisonment of the Tyrant Buonaparte, an affair which demanded the advice of her bosom companion.

“So we have the gallant officers, the Spanish cousins, Misses Keller, Brown and Heightmeyer, Drs Carson and Zelenka, and to round out the numbers, Dr McKay.”

“Oh Elizabeth, must we? He is so... attentive. And prosy.” Samantha Carter pulled a face more suited to the seminary tomboy Elizabeth had known than to the respectable society matron recognised by the upper ten thousand of fashionable society.

“Sam!” Elizabeth's voice was gently reproving, but held a hint of laughter. 

“Oh, I know. One must have an escort for everyone, and Miss Keller has a tendre for him.” 

“Thank heavens.” Elizabeth responded absently.

“Aha! Finally an unkind word for the pest. You really can be too tolerant.”

“Well yes, I admit it was rather tiresome when he was chasing after you – like a satyr after a nymph!”

“A nymph? My deepest thanks.” Sam laughed, dismissing the compliment with a toss of her artlessly dressed golden locks.

“And when everyone knew you were pining for General Jack, too – ”

“Pining!” Sam's rather forced indignation provoked Elizabeth to laughter.

“Don't you dare deny it, Mrs Carter. I knew you when we were both mooning over the Drawing Master at Miss Kensington's. You were and are pining for Mad Jack O'Neill, and if you don't admit it I shall strike him from the guest list and invite Mr Woolsey and,” She paused dramatically, “tell him to bring his poems.”

“You wouldn't, you wretched thing.”

“I shall request an allegory.” Elizabeth raised a cool eyebrow, her face a masterpiece of confidence. The politic smile on her lips was a byword in learned and political circles, and even over the card tables of Almanack's. Arrivals to London were often warned of the four cardinal stupidities: Never call the Regent George. Never lend money to Brummell. Never tell a secret to Sally 'Silence' Jersey. Never call Lady Weir's bluff.

“Fine. I submit, I throw in my hand. I have missed him atrociously.”

“Very well. And soon, you shall no longer have cause to. I will be seating you together and I beg of you, dear friend, talk to him properly. If you even mention the weather I will tell Captain Lorne to shoot you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two evenings hence, at 6 o'clock:

Dr Zelenka exited the Royal Society and hailed a hansom cab without interrupting the flow of his argument. He left with a burst of triumphant Latin, delivered in a Czech accent so thick his adversary could do nothing but accept defeat.

Teyla Emmagen and her cousin Ronon left their hotel, wearing what the porter deemed to be far too little for such a chill evening. His remarks (which he thought impenetrable to foreigners) caused them much quiet amusement. After their time in high passes of Andalusia, no city night could ever seem truly cold, or truly dark.

General O'Neill called at the seedy lodgings of Major Sheppard.

“You may be disgraced, but you are still receiving your pay. I fail to see the necessity of residing in such a dismal hole. If this is some form of self-flagellation, rest assured that Colonel Sumner will be happy to oblige you. Unless... perhaps the sun of Spain has entirely addled your brains, and you have become addicted to campaign conditions?”

“I am being prudent and penny-pinching whilst I still have pennies to pinch.” John's eyes danced – prudence, as they both knew, was far from his nature.

“At least on campaign one can see the sky. Come, set yourself to rights. I am staging a daring rescue at Lady Weir's place.” 

“Whom, from what?” John struggled into glossy Hessians.

“You, from this hermit-like existence,, and-”

“And?”

“And nothing. Am I your superior officer or not?”

“Mrs Carter, from spinsterhood. I thought as much.”

“Rank insubordination. Everywhere I look, insubordinate reckless fools and thrice-damned blockheaded cowards.” The general smiled wolfishly.

“At least I'm no coward, then.”

“Perish the thought.” O'Neill said, kindly. “Mind your manners with Weir, she'll set you to rights with the politicos. That woman could have been Prime Minister were she born a man.”

“Why should she help me?”

“You have the Sheppard blood. It opens a lot of doors.”  
\--------------------------------  
Elizabeth moved like the breath of Providence around the room, steering friends together and enemies apart.

As Colonel Caldwell began to hold forth on the inestimable advantages of the scorched earth policy in war, John's brows drew together. Lady Weir, seeing the signs of trouble, sent a speaking glance to Captain Lorne. 

“Sir, have you seen the gardens? The view from the balcony is much admired.”

“Thank you. I believe I shall take some fresh air. It's becoming close in here.”  
=================

Dr McKay was taking refuge on the balcony. Though reading, he looked up at the approach of another guest and stirred himself to make a token effort at what passed in him for civility.

“Ah. Caldwell drove you out, I suppose.” The dark green of this officer's uniform made a pleasant change from the harsh red and golds that thronged in the parlour.

“And you?”

“I dislike politics. Especially his.” To a military man this must be a sufficiently obvious dismissal, but the stranger persisted.

“You're a doctor, I understand.”

“A Natural Philosopher, thank you.” McKay corrected quickly, lest the gentleman start to ask medical advice – a hideously common occurrence. “I study the stars.”

“Is that what so occupies you?” John nodded towards to the slim green volume in McKay's hand.

“Ah... yes. Excuse me.” McKay added, belatedly realising that reading whilst being drawn into conversation at a party might be taken amiss.

“Think nothing of it.”

“You're a soldier, then.” McKay said abruptly, wincing inwardly at the stupidity of his words.

“Yes, for now. I may well be discharged soon.”

“Oh, good.” A certain quality in his partner's silence cause McKay to rethink his words. “Is it not?”

“No, it isn't good.” There was bitterness in his voice, but he was looking at Caldwell, still in smug control of the conversation.

“Oh. Um, sorry.”

“No fault of yours.” 

“What kind of soldier are you? I never quite grasped all of the uniform symbology.” After so many years of war, he found it a source of perverse pride.

“Rifleman, 95th regiment. These shoulder stripes mean I'm a major.” The soldier then whistled piercingly; the note: A major.

McKay snorted with laughter. “Very good.” He scratched the back of his head. “I cannot for love nor money remember your name. Introductions are like water off a duck's back.”

“Please, save any love and money and pass them on to me. John Sheppard.” He sketched a bow.

“Rodney McKay. I fear that money is out of the question.”

“It will have to be love, then.”

“I can provide that.” Not seeing the flash of surprise on John's face, Rodney opened his book. “I may have mislead you as to the contents of this book. To be caught reading poetry is something of an embarrassment. I swear you to secrecy, you understand.”

“Naturally.” John inclined his head gracefully. Those eyelashes were wasted on a man, Rodney thought, then put that out of his mind as somehow unsettling.

“I don't write, so you can be easy on that score. It's Byron's work. Listen;  
Thou who can'st guide the wandering star,  
Through trackless realms of other's space,  
Who calm'st the elemental war  
Whose hand I trace from pole to pole...”

He trailed off, caught by John's intent gaze. The night held them both spellbound till Teyla Emmagen's musical laugh drifted out, breaking the moment. They glanced inside, catching the tail of the conversation.

“...don't deny it, Miss Emmagen, but-”

“I'm glad that you do not, Colonel. It would make me very upset to hear the years my family spent fighting Napoleon denied so casually. Lieutenant Ford, would you fetch me some champagne?”

“Of course, Miss - anything you ask.” Teyla smiled regally, granting the starstruck young man a hand to kiss.

“She looks like exiled royalty.” Rodney said quietly.

“She might as well be. Her family is a short step from the throne – a very short step. That said, she shoots like a poacher and cooks worse than I do. We met a few times in Spain.” John explained, managing to make the war-torn Spanish countryside sound like a rather dull holiday town.

“You should go and renew your acquaintance. Cut Ford out – it shouldn't be hard, the boy knows nothing of mathematics.”

“No. No, I think I'll stay out of the line of fire. You could-”

“Whatever the line of fire is, it sounds worth avoiding. In -” He checked his chronometer “twelve minutes we'll be able to see Venus next to Jupiter. I'll show you.”


End file.
